


Seeing Souls

by HotCocoaaa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Harry Potter can see souls, He can see souls bc of the AK, Indian Harry Potter, It's multi-chapter now :/, POC Harry Potter, Slytherin Harry Potter, Smart Harry Potter, This is me playing around, but hate its cannon, don't expect rapid updates, enjoy my sandbox i guess, it's 2:25am im posting this for no damn reason other than I love harry potter, souls are individual and Interesting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 13:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20228962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotCocoaaa/pseuds/HotCocoaaa
Summary: Even as a child, Harry knew he was different.Sure, being told all his life by his relatives obviously made a big impact, but seeing their souls while they said it was what most likely made him believe it.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a wip. I dragged cannon out back and shot it. 
> 
> Also surprise im a harry potter nerd.

Even as a child, Harry knew he was different.   
  
Sure, being told daily by his family helped a lot, but inherently, Harry had learned.   
  
Nobody else saw them.   
  
One day he’d been pulled aside at recess by his primary school teacher. She’d asked him a few questions about whether he found it hard to focus or not, if he got distracted easily.    
  
Harry had shook his head no and stayed quiet, knowing better than to talk without an invitation.    
  
His teacher had seemed a little perplexed, but had nonetheless walked away, murmuring under her breath about children who always stared off into space and whom could never pay attention.    
  
Harry stared at the wispy little orb that glowed a faint plum in her chest as she went.    
  


* * *

  
Everyone had one. A glowing little will-o-wisp. Harry called them fairies, since he didn’t really think will-o-wisp was the right term, not that they really looked much like fairies; but, who was he to say what a fairy looked like, anyway?    
  
He’d found a dusty, large old tome in the big library near the house. It had been absolutely filled to the brim with pages upon pages of fairy tales. There were ones about witches and ones about apples, stories of the sun and the moon, grizzly bears, hexes, and curses. His favourite had been the one with the will-o-wisps’ that lead people into forests to find fairy rings.    
  
With nothing much else to go on, Harry decided on the name. The colored, moving textured globes were sometimes wispy and always in some state of movement.    
  
So, Harry called them fairies.   
  


* * *

  
His family’s fairies were all very unpleasant looking, unsurprisingly.   
  
Uncle Vernon’s was a badly whittled wooden sphere, coated in a thick, dripping liquid a few shades off from a brown gray. It bubbled and fizzed in a hissy sort of manor, an acidic abomination eating away at the last natural thing its toxic grasp held. It looked forever dissatisfied, like it just couldn’t be happy with whatever it was that it had.   
  
Aunt Petunia's was a translucent, very muted purple glass; the kind that looked almost light a lightbulb- that is, if someone had forgotten about one and left it to slowly gather dust in some ancient attic. It was delicate and thin, constantly cracking, crumbling and chipping off into an infinite mess.    
  
Dudley’s fairy could have been warped taffy; sticky and slowly bending, as muted a flamingo pink as it was. It sat centered in a round mold of slightly off looking,  _ almost  _ intricate, slowly tarnishing silver casting. It would turn red whenever he got mad, and would spike out and become angular whenever the boy would throw a temper-tantrum. 

_ ‘A silver spoon for a taffy loon,’ _ Was a silly rhyme Harry had come up with around five, and had never quite been able to forget.

Harry himself had always felt a barrier between his fairy and his family’s for as long as he’d been alive. Whenever he’d walk into a room with even one of them, he’d always feel slightly repelled, as if on the wrong side of a magnet. The wisps would react as well- sparking, fluctuating, or spinning in a off-putting sort of way. The golden butterfly that for as long as he'd known had always flown and fluttered around his fairy would constantly act agitated around his family.    


None of the Dursley’s had a golden butterfly. 

He was different, he knew, and though Harry didn’t much like it, he figured it was his normal by that point in his short life. Besides, he knew that that Petunia, Vernon nor Dudley ever felt it- the feeling of the magnetic repel. He’d learnt the hard way that his family didn’t see the fairies, and still had the belt buckle scars to remind him.    


* * *

  
Harry was 6 when he realized that maybe what he saw were souls, not fairies.

It made a startling amount of sense when he thought about it, and as an almost seven year old, he figured that as practically a grown up he should use a more grown up term anyway.    
  
So, Harry started calling them souls. Something in his chest always chimed pleasantly when he did.   
  


* * *

  
Harry’s own soul, he noticed whenever he looked in the mirror or just plain down, didn’t look like that of his family’s.    
  
His own was an translucent ocean, sandy sea floor visible from beneath a churning globe of constant waves colored ever changing pastel gem hues. Lily pink and emerald green waves mixed and crashed against each other, baby blue sea foam always bubbling. The waves reflected sunlight, shimmering pretty diamond sparkles off of swirling wakes on sunny afternoons. Often times, when he was angry, his soul would overflow with crashing, angry storm bound waves and spill into misty fog to the ground below him. Soft pink could change to deep maroon and emerald green to apathetic jade quicker than a thunderhead rolling in; with anger, a storm there would be. Miniature storm clouds flashing small lightning bolts would steadily overtake raging, crashing waves, slowly covering shining colors. 

If you asked Harry himself, he would tell you that his soul was an ocean, like the seas he sometimes saw on the Dursley’s TV. Well, a multicolored ocean that occasionally overflowed with cloudy fog just like the real clouds that would sometimes hang too low down to the earth. 

If you asked him, he’d tell you it looked like spring had repainted a sea.

What always threw him off, however, was the little maroon treasure chest that rested half buried in the empty sand layer forming the core below pastel waves. Sometimes, he’d pass the hallways mirror or look down to see the chest had opened and let loose a small, equally maroon butterfly. It would lightly float around with its golden colored twin until it fell and sank back to the depths it had come from. Other times, a maroon scaled snake liked to slither out instead and curl around sandy ocean floor, blending into waves and creating twisted, underwater maroon streaks of color around the sphere of ocean water; like oil spilt in the sea.

Aside from the small golden butterfly that appeared as a constant, Harry had a big bird with wingspans larger than imaginable that liked to wind and slope around the waters of his soul; it disappeared often, and hadn’t always been a bird. The creature had slowly morphed into different animals as he’d gotten older and experienced different things. It had started out as a wolf pup, grown into a snake, and recently, had settled as a large sea bird.    
  
He’d lie awake occasionally in his cupboard, giggling softly as he marveled at the little bird flying around and around, dusty comet trails chasing after it as it glided. Flapping boundless in the air it would fly, riding on invisible air currents and always chasing after the golden butterfly.    
  
Harry didn’t know what it was, but he always found it beautiful regardless. He sometimes marveled at how happy, how content the little bird was. In many ways, he envied it.   
  
Like the little seabird, Harry didn’t know what to make of the golden butterfly. He had seen three people with one like it before, and one other person also with a secondary animal- a horse- but no others beyond.    
  
The first had been a strangely dressed women looking to be in a hurry to get somewhere. The second was a short man carrying a much too large suitcase who had vanished after passing behind a tree. 

The third person had also had the tiny golden butterfly, but a small horse could be seen galloping after it as well. The lady had disappeared from his view after a few moments, but Harry was still certain of what he’d seen.   
  
All had had little golden butterflies floating around their souls, and from a distance, Harry could tell that two had no other animal. Just the golden butterfly. Harry had no clue what it meant, but was still comforted by the fact that he’d seen three other people with it.    
  
So really, while it appeared to be rare, it wasn’t a huge deal.   
  


* * *

Whenever he did something impossible, Harry could feel his soul humming and stirring inside his chest, and the little golden butterfly would glow; Like when he’d just suddenly appeared on top of the school roof when he’d been running away from the bullies- he’d felt a small tug on his soul and then a pop and- on the roof.   
  
He’d been sent to the principal's office after they’d gotten him down. Petunia had to come get him, and once Vernon was home, he’d had the displeasure of getting greeted with the belt again.    
  
Strange things would happen all the time- his teachers hair turning blue, bones broken the night before being half healed in the morning, his hair being cut to its ends and the next day being twice as long.

All of it, always, set the butterfly going. 

* * *

The first time Harry set foot in Diagon alley, he was completely overwhelmed by the sheer amount of magic dripping from the place. 

With almost zero exposure to magic in his previous eleven years of life, the atmospheric change was staggering. He could not physically breathe anywhere in the alley without also breathing in concentrated magic. It was a well received whiplash, along with a physical pressurized reassurance that  _ no _ , he was not crazy. 

With the magic came wixen; witches and wizards and familiars, all radiating their own brand of the craft, but most importantly, their own souls. 

Growing up being able to see them, Harry had gotten well acquainted in how to read into souls, and how to understand them. Mostly, in the sense that environments and experiences  _ changed  _ people, and in turn, their souls. Memories and events colored and decorated a soul, determined if it was rocky or smooth; intricate or bland; colored or dull. 

You could learn a lot from a person by staring into their soul.   
  
Go figure.   


The one thing that had always,  _ always _ , been an unchangeable idea, was that no one had an environmental soul  _ except  _ for Harry Potter. Of course, people's souls grew and changed with them- Dudley’s soul had started out looking like chewed bubblegum and slowly morphed into the texture of taffy.  _ That  _ was the difference, however. Dudley’s soul was simply a texture. An idea. 

Harry’s was a biome. 

His own soul was a never ending literal ocean, one that was steadily growing coral and fauna, islands and rocks and volcanoes, with every year he got older. His own soul could produce entire intangible storms based on his mood alone. 

He was pretty sure taffy couldn't do that. 

In over a decade of life, he had discovered the blatant distinction, but had never been able to explain why. Except for the day he met Hagrid, the man with a soul of deep forest floor and never ending evergreens, and set foot inside Diagon Alley where he'd found the missing key. 

Clutching the oversized coat of the giant he’d met only a few hours previous, little Harry Potter stared and stared and stared. Everyone had a  _ biome _ . There was not a plain soul in sight, and each and every one had a small golden butterfly. Just like Hagrid’s. Just like  _ his _ . 

If he were asked what one of his fondest memories was, Harry would answer that day; because standing there as he stared out into the sea of people, the realization of what exactly the butterfly was hit him full force. 

It was  _ magic _ . 

The biomes and the animals and the little golden butterfly were all  _ magic _ . 

It was why not a regular person had ever had an animal circling their soul, nor stormy weather. It was a purely wixen gift; and even though Harry might have had to pretend to be dense to appease Dudley’s school test scores, he absolutely was  _ not _ . 

Hagrid leaned down and gave a deep chuckle before brushing his free, giant hand through Harry’s dark raven locks. Harry clutched the man’s coat even tighter, and wondered why the whole world hadn’t collapsed when Hagrid had told him his was a wizard. 

“Welcome home, ‘Arry.” 

* * *

At the sorting, Harry barely acknowledged his peers, unable to take his eyes off of the staff.    
  
The lady in green who he knew had introduced herself already standing before a stool and placing an old hat was interesting. Along with the fact the he couldn’t remember her name, Harry watched her churning amber soul that looked liked burning coals and swirling lava. she had a small cat running around its molten swells and igneous mountains. She’d been the one to herd all the first years through the great doors into the great hall, but while she’d been talking, Harry had gotten lost in the sensation of an ancient castle doused in magic. He felt a little bad, but ultimately figured it would turn out alright in the long run. 

The core of the thing was hidden behind a half built castle of slate black stone, shining with a burning glow. The walls were marred slightly with scratches and peppered with chips and breaks. Almost like someone had taken a chisel to the rock and left defeated. Small lilac amethyst crystals grew flecked around the bottom of the curved rock walls, twinkling in the candlelight.    
  
Her own golden butterfly was almost dim in comparison to the bright yellow magma swirling and churning in the inside of her soul. It looked like the core of the earth. 

Harry ignored the terrified whispers all around him, still ensnared by the women with the soul of molten rock. 

_ 'She’s fiery, then.’ _ He thought.  _ ‘Probably passionate. A warm personality...but definitely hidden somewhat, by the looks of that castle. I’d bet money on stern, if those chipped walls are any indication.’  _ His inner dialogue slowed as he fought to think of the right word.  _ ‘Immovable? No...Incorruptible.’ _ __   
  
Looking to her left to one of the teachers sitting at the table, the black haired man with the hooked nose caught his attention.    
  
He had a deep green soul. The sphere shape of it looked more like a half. Cut in the middle, a swamp rested inside an atmosphere. Its oily lake water was a deep muddled green and melting into the black marsh beside it, water riddled with three small ward stones of matte black granite. The small stone pillars were almost covered by the reeds. Completing the top half of the spherical shape was a dome of mist, dark and foggy with storm gray clouds. 

The faintest of moonlight washed over a small grove of cypress trees to the side of the lake, wilted and leaning, their metallic trunks tarnished. In their thick foliage of dark leaves hid bright white asphodels growing from the thin silver and bronze branches. He had a large frilled lizard perched rather angrily on top of a flat stone jutting out of the small deep green lake. It looked as if it was fuming. 

Beneath the swamp shore, and forming the underside dome of the sphere, was dark silt. A flash of white bone betrayed the mud's slow, churning movement, and Harry barely refrained from recoiling when a human skull shone through sludge. It stared at him with empty, lifeless sockets before being swallowed up by the imitated earth once again.    
  
_ ‘He’s bitter. He looks stable, but he’s not. I think…’ _ Harry squinted, his head tilting to the side in thought. The man’s gaze turned to him, and distantly Harry noted dark perceiving eyes.  _ ‘He’s stuck in mourning for something.’ _ The man had plenty of skeletons and secrets to hide, if the mud was anything to go by. The cypress trees, he knew, meant something along the lines of sacrifice. Perhaps they related to this man’s buried secrets? Harry looked up to meet the burning gaze of the wizard, but once their eyes had locked, the man jerked away. Mildly dismayed, Harry let his line of sight fall back to the man’s marsh of a soul.

His golden butterfly was not dimmer than the rest but less restless, halfheartedly tapping around above the fog layer of his soul; as if there was no real reason for it to fly at all. What reason could that man have for not wanting to use his magic? Harry couldn’t guess. 

Satisfied with picking apart the looming man’s dreary soul, Harry ignored the onyx black eyes yet again boring into him, and moved his interest further down the table.    
  
The old man at the front of the long table with the twinkling blue eyes hidden behind half moon spectacles made him do a double take. At first, Harry’s eyes had passed over him, only to jerk back a nanosecond later.    
  
His soul was one Harry couldn’t possibly tear his eyes away from.    
  
It was...It was turbulent, to say the least. Turbulent, and painful to look at. Behind him, someone tapped his shoulder to get his attention, but Harry couldn’t possibly turn around.    
  
The soul was a giant sphere of ever twisting, cracking tree branches and roots. There was a great oak tree at the top, wide and encompassing, with a flaming Phoenix perched upon its huge green foliage glowing brilliantly besides the ever moving golden butterfly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a page of an old book on tree symbolism's crossed his thoughts. 

‘ _ “Oak carries the energy of kingship and wise rule, personal sovereignty, authority, power, protection, and invocation of wisdom.”’  _

As his eyes looked further down, however, the chestnut brown of the twisting branches and roots split, opening up to part for a suspended glass sphere. Inside, was a slowly wilting bouquet of purple iris,’ the flowers of wisdom. 

Midway down the old man's soul, the chestnut brown of oak roots meshed and faded to a sickly shade of ghostly white that made up another tree; a yew tree. It sat at the bottom of the old soul and was the most eye catching of all. It looked sickly, unnatural and horrific; it was the antithesis to the oak above, unearthly in it’s encompassing wrongness. Its thinning leaves were such a deep red, they appeared black, and it held a pallor as though it was made of bone. In direct contrast to the large, green oak tree, the yew was everything opposite.    
  
The two different tree types met in the middle of the sphere, and together created a harsh mirrors image.The bone white wood of the yew tree slowly leached into the strong brown of the oak, both species of tree in a constant state of pushing and pulling; A warring for dominance. As he watched in terrible fascination, the ghostly shadow of old spell light shone and gave washed out color to the churning wood.

With a wince, Harry averted his eyes. It stung to look at the man’s soul for too long; the kind of sting one could get after staring too hard at the sun. He’d never seen anyone with anything like it; it was half unnatural, half unsettling; like a parasite. 

The last oddity of the man’s soul was how far away his golden butterfly was able to get. It would fly up near his nose, and then dip down in an elliptical orbit to swoop past his stomach.    
  
His magic acted like Harry’s.    
  
It made a thought strike. Perhaps, the distance a person's’ butterfly could travel signified how magically powerful a person was?    
  
A shiver licked down his spine.

Whoever this old man was, ‘ _ probably the headmaster _ ,’ his mind supplied, was most likely powerful. With the flowers as his core symbolizing wilting wisdom, Harry wasn’t sure how far he was willing to trust this man. Not for the first time, he bit down on his lower lip and wished very hard that someone, anyone else, was able to see souls like he could. 

Anxiously, he swallowed, and finally turned around to the other child tapping at his shoulder. 

“-ell? Are you deaf?” 

Color rising to his dark cheeks, Harry shook his head and turned around. The sight of a boy a little taller than him with almost white blond hair met his eyes. 

“No. I’m sorry- I was distracted.” 

The other boy raised an eyebrow, and very pointedly, Harry kept his gaze upwards to the boys face. People didn’t like to be looked up and down much. 

“Fair. My name is Draco Malfoy. I assume you’re Harry Potter?” The boy- Draco- or Malfoy? Said quietly, seemingly unphased by Harry’s lapse of focus. 

Around them, hushed whispers continued and the lady with the molten soul whose name he  _ still  _ could not recall continued to call out names from a scroll. 

With the introduction, Harry was immensely glad he’d begged Hagrid to take him to the bookstore more than once. He’d found things on his own history that the man just hadn’t been able to tell him- for the fact that he’d break into tears whenever he’d try. Tears, or terrified shivers. 

With a small nod, Harry blew his curly bangs away from his forehead in a short breath. He watched as Draco’s eyes widened a fraction at the view of his large, blatant, lightning bolt scar. A shy smile tugged at his lips, and Harry stuck out a hand with a whispered introduction. 

“Harry Potter. It’s nice to meet you, Draco Malfoy.” 

They shook. 

* * *

Harry hadn’t talked to anyone on the train. In fact, he’d made a point to  _ avoid  _ everyone on the train. 

Part of the reason was shyness, but most of that shyness extended from his newly found fame. The first day in Diagon Alley without a simple disguise had been rough, and Harry had had no intentions to repeat the ordeal on a train packed full of excitable school children; all of whom would  _ absolutely  _ gossip. 

He may have been an outcast in primary school, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been immune to rumors. Frankly, he’d been rather prone to them. 

The other part of the reason was the suffocating quality people tended to have.  _ Especially  _ magical people. Everyone had a magical core, and so, gave off magic. At best it was comforting; at worst, smothering. The time he’d spent in Diagon had shown him that obviously, other wixen weren’t bothered by the feeling of another’s magical core; from what he’d gathered, he sincerely doubted that wixen even  _ could  _ feel other being’s magics. It was something he wanted to look into, but mostly, it was something he wanted to avoid if he could. 

If that meant isolation, well, Harry was fine with that. 

The smothering and the fame wasn’t the full story, however. Most of all, Harry didn’t want to be a collectors item. A museum piece to be ogled at. He wanted to be normal; part of the crowd. It was a pipe dream.

When Hagrid had dropped him off at the station after almost a month spent with the man in the Alley, the giant had reassured him that  _ ‘“you’ll fit righ’ in an’ make a whole bunch o’ friends in no time, ‘Arry!”’ _

Harry had appreciated the optimism, but utterly disbelieved the man. 

He wouldn’t be making friends; he’d be a living trophy to collect. 

So Harry, already shy enough and still so new to the wixen world, decided that he’d take the last few hours truly to himself and hide away. It was easy enough; he’d use the magical sense he could pick up from people’s souls and play duck and go. Not hard at all. 

The train had been nice, with plenty of unused cars to hide away in. Harry had gotten to watch the fields pass by and finish his newest book without being bothered by a soul. 

He was fairly sure Hagrid would be disappointed in him a little bit; but disappointment mattered so  _ little  _ compared to the crippling terror of other children. 

Besides, what Hagrid didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. 

* * *

“Potter, Harry!” 

The hall went silent. 

All talk stopped and for a blessed second, everything and everyone was still. Then, the chatter picked up more ferociously than it had left off, and Harry clenched his hands nervously. With a shaky breath in and a firm ignorance to the muffled shouts behind him and fascinated whispers cascading around the hall of “ _ That’s Harry Potter?! _ ” he set his shoulders and walked up to the hat. 

He hadn’t paid much- any- attention to the sortings previous. The only one he’d really watched had been Malfoy’s, but that had been out of a mild interest and a vague sense of necessity. Trembling, he went up to the stool, sat, and allowed the lady who’s name he still could not remember place the beat up, magic heavy hat upon his head. 

It was silent. 

_ “My, my Mr. Potter. This  _ is  _ a first.”  _

Until the hat began to talk. 

_ ‘You can talk? Inside my head?’  _

_ “Of course. You can’t?”  _

A corner of his mouth ticked up.

_ ‘Supposedly, if you’re sentient, then why don’t you have a soul? You feel like a lot of magic, but I can’t see your soul.’  _

_ “Quite a question, young man. Perhaps instead of wondering about my sentience, you should turn your attention to the house of your next seven years.”  _

The hats words were not harsh, but instead amused. His eyes covered by the brim of the old thing, Harry looked up into its dark, patched interior. 

_ ‘Isn’t that for you to decide?’ _

_ “Says the boy who watched  _ one  _ child be sorted.” _

_ ‘Well my name isn’t ‘The Sorting Hat,’ now is it?’  _

The hat laughed. 

_ “Feisty one, aren’t you? You’d do well in Gryffindor, lad. House of the brave, chivalrous and bold.”  _

_ ‘You mean the loud table?’  _

_ “Correct. But I also see a raven in you, what with all of your questions.” _

_ ‘’I’ve only asked a few.’ _

_ “Maybe in this exchange, so far, yes.” _

_ ‘You mean ever, then?’ _

_ “I mean your entire life, child. I’m here to judge your past, present and future- I’m in your head to sort you.”  _

_ ‘Then why haven't you already?’ _ Harry teased, and the hat, for all its playful jabbing, laughed again. 

_ “You’re a strange one, child. In all my years, I’ve only ever encountered one with a gift similar to your own. Her’s, however, was much different- yet she was just as difficult.” _

_ ‘Difficult?’ _

_ “Difficult to sort. You could go many ways, Mr. Potter. You’re brave and noble, you stand for justice and aren’t afraid to fight back when you need to.” _

The hat paused, shifting on his head and Harry learched forwards, gripping the rickety stool hard to keep from toppling over from the weight. 

_ “While at the same time,”  _ The hat continued, as if he hadn’t almost pulled Harry to the floor,  _ “you could just as easily fit with the Ravenclaw's. You’re curious and critical; you ask questions and create hypothesis. Why, your whole life has been trial and error, has it not?”  _

Blush rising to his face for the second time that night, Harry bit his lip, and nodded. 

_ “I’m afraid we can rule out Hufflepuff, because as hard of a worker you may be, Mr. Potter, I see those shortcuts you enjoy so much.”  _

_ ‘Then move on, you patchy thing,’ _ Harry pouted, mildly ruffled. 

_ “Ahaha, and there’s the Gryffindor. Mighty little lion indeed. But I still see a cunning in you, lad. It was not a Ravenclaw that tricked the giant into letting you stay in the Alley, oh no; that, Mr. Potter, was pure Slytherin.”  _

_ ‘I didn’t trick him!’ _ Harry rushed to defend.  _ ‘I just..convinced him it would be better...It wasn’t a trick…’  _

_ “Indeed it was not; it was the right words in the right direction. A masterful spell of self preservation if I do say so. And I do.”  _

His shoulders hunching slightly inwards, Harry fought to keep sitting up straight beneath the weight of generations of magic, all soaked into one old hat. 

_ ‘Then..if you can’t decide, where am I supposed to go?’  _

All of a sudden, he felt small. 

_ “That is where  _ you  _ help  _ me _ .  _ I _ see clearly where you’d flourish best- what paths you could take, which trails you could walk to make you great. The trick, dear boy, is to figure out the road best suited for  _ you _ .”  _

Harry thought for a moment. From beyond the brim of the old hat, he could hear the hall growing restless. He’d overheard  _ ‘hat-stall’ _ more than a few times since the sorting had begun, and wondered if he counted as one. 

_ ‘If you can see so clearly...then where do you think I’d be best?’ _ Harry asked, careful to keep twitching fingers in his lap, shaky but still. 

_ “Me? Why, I’d say Slytherin. The house of the snake could push you to your potential- gain you opportunities rarely come by from the other houses...” _

_ ‘...But you still can see me in Ravenclaw and Gryffindor.’ _ Harry finished. 

_ “Yes.” _ The hat bounced again, and the heavy weight of all the magic saturating it sent Harry pitching to the side. Clawing at the seat for a second time, he managed not to fall. 

_ ‘You’re heavy you old thing! Stop swaying around or we’ll both fall!’  _

_ “My bad my bad- it has been so long since a true magical sense has worn my stitching!”  _

Harry rolled his eyes, blew his bangs from his vision still obscured by the hat brim, and took a breath. 

_ ‘If you could choose, you’d pick Slytherin.’ _

_ “Yes.” _

_ ‘But I could also do well in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw?’ _

_ “Yes.” _

_ ‘I...Ravenclaw is the house of knowledge, right?’ _

_ “It is indeed.”  _

_ ‘But not anything beyond that.’ _

_ “Correct, Mr. Potter.” _ With the hat’s words, Harry could hear it’s rising pride. 

_ ‘Slytherin wouldn’t just limit me to the gaining of knowledge, would it?’ _

_ “It would not, Mr. Potter, and with that I do believe we’re done here. I think, with all that’s been said, it better be-” _

“SLYTHERIN!”

The hall fell silent. 

Chancing a look, Harry hesitantly tipped the hat’s large brim over his eyes to see out into the great hall. Comically, everyone looked flabbergasted- perhaps some more malevolently than others. 

The quiet hissing of chatter broke out suddenly, and in a startled reaction Harry dropped the hat back over his eyes. With his view of hundreds of churning souls blocked, he breathed a small sigh of relief until the lady came to remove the hat from his head. 

As soon as she’d grabbed it, he’d met her gaze to see utter shock underneath professionalism. The volcano in her soul was erupting. 

Hurriedly, Harry walked down the steps to the silver and green table, and consequently, Malfoy. The boy was beckoning him with a slight wave of his hand. Thankfully, Harry slid into the obviously open seat next to the blond and smiled graciously, if small. Malfoy nodded back. 

A powerful burst of magic drew his eyes to the staff table. When no one else reacted, he knew he’d been the only one to feel it. His eyes drew up and up until they met onyx, and dropped to misty marsh. 

The man’s golden butterfly was erratic, and his gaze felt like touching a lit match. The flat stones making up the triangle in his soul’s marsh lake set ablaze with small blue flame, and Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

The man with a soul of secrets, for the first time in a while, felt a fire blaze in himself.


	2. The Alley and The Giant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A closer look at the Alley trip, and perhaps, the reason he was a slytherin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm whinging this that's why its weirdly ordered whoops. Uh anyway y'all remember that some souls have animals? Two guesses to what those indicate; Harry's as it currently is I imagine to be either a White tailed Tropicbird, or a Great Skua. 
> 
> Snape. Do I like him. Do I hate him. No idea. come back next sunday for a spin the wheel.

Hagrid had let Harry hold his giant hand in the face of the huge crowds of other wixen. The man had, after Harry had gotten his first look into the alley, just started moving and almost lost him. It had been a quick idea, a lifeline in the growing distance from the only other person he’d really liked; so Harry had grabbed and hung on tight. 

Hagrid hadn’t reacted beyond a hearty chuckle and the amusement to swing their arms together as they walked. Harry had been in awe, having never held onto a parents hand before. He figured that might have been what it felt like. 

* * *

The first thing they’d done in the alley after getting through the pub and Harry’s initial shock, was wander shop to shop. 

“See, Prof’sor Dumbl’dor wanted you ter get all yer school supplies, but tha’s such a long lis’ and I reckon we ‘ave plenty o’ time t’day,” Hagrid said as they walked, clasped hands swinging and Harry hopping every few steps to keep up with the giant. With each word, Harry only grew more and more excited. 

“So- we could spend the day here?” He exclaimed quietly but vibrantly. He’d never gotten to do such a thing before. 

Hagrid grinned wide, and the evergreen forest of his soul was split with gleaming golden sunbeams. 

“Absolut’ly, ‘Arry. ‘Appy Birthday.” 

* * *

Harry stared into the golden eyes of a beautiful snowy owl, and couldn’t find his words. 

“Beau’iful, is’t she?” He could only nod. Hagrid placed on big hand on his own small shoulder, and leaned down so just Harry would hear him. 

“Ev’ry wixen needs a familiar, ‘Arry. I reckon you an’ ‘er would get righ’ along.” 

Afraid to speak lest he burst into tears, Harry watched the beautiful ice soul of the owl, heavy with slowly falling snow and glittering frozen lakes. The owl stared right back at him. 

“I think I’d like that,” he whispered haltingly, reaching out slowly to gently stroke the snowy owls head. She chirped at the touch, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Well th’n, ‘appy birthday, ‘Arry.” 

Harry smiled.

* * *

He didn’t think he’d ever been told ‘happy birthday’ so much in his _ life _. 

Hagrid, with every shop they’d go into or buy something from, would always let Harry stop and look however long he wanted to; either he’d wait for the boy to spy something he liked, or snoop around himself to find something he figured Harry would like. All in the name of his birthday. 

Harry had never had so many presents. 

Hagrid had even been kind enough to let Harry waste _ hours _in Flourish and Blotts bookstore. They’d gotten his school books first, and then Harry had wandered and wandered and wandered, looking at every book on magic the store had physically possible. 

Without the feather weight charm on his trunk, Harry didn’t want to think about what the actual weight would be. 

* * *

Paying, he discovered, was interesting in the wixen world. 

When he’d asked why Hagrid didn’t seem to be paying for any of the things they’d gotten, the man had laughed and explained. 

“I’m usin’ a _ grant _from Gringotts.” He’d said, carefully pronouncing the word so Harry would understand it. 

“A grant?” 

“Yup. ‘S like thos’ muggle checks- a’ least for the Hogwarts money we’ve been usin.’” He winked, and Harry tilted his head in questioning. 

“Since we ‘avn’t ac’ually been to yer vault yet ‘Arry, we don’ ‘ave any physical money ter pay with. Bu’,” he held up a hand, interrupting Harry’s indignant exclamation. “We do ‘ave enchan’ed _ grant’s _. ‘S like a loan, because it gives an offic’al number ter the bank so they kno’ how much or how little ter draw out.”

Harry chewed on his lip, thinking. 

“So it’s basically a magical loan?”

“Correct.”

“And you said enchanted,” Harry pinned, eyebrows drawing together as he thought. 

“If it’s enchanted, can it make someone fulfill their half of the loan? By magic?” He asked, watching the profile of Hagrid face as the giant cleared the way for them.

“Sorta, ya. I ‘magine it’s a lot more complic’ed than tha,’ bu’ ya the spellwork ‘s a bindin’ clause. Like a contrac.’” 

“Woah.” 

Hagrid laughed, full bellied as Harry had become used to. 

“Indeed it is.” 

“So, what account are we pulling from? Aside from the school,” he hastily tacked on, interested; because Harry knew he didn’t have money. 

“Well, this one’s tied to yer trust fund, ‘Arry.”

That made his heart rate skyrocket. 

“My _ trust fund?!” _

* * *

Grinngotts was strange, but Goblin souls were stranger. 

In many ways, their souls seemed the same as human’s or wixen’s, but that was where the similarities ended. Goblin souls, of which he could see, were all a type of metal or rock, either molten or hard. The fact that most he could see were only textures didn’t hinder the false notion that the things were less complex than wixen. They weren’t They weren’t at all. 

Looking close to the teller as Hagrid told the creature his vault number, Harry watched a soul made of iron shift, slowly exposing a core made of interlocking gears, steadily moving. It was fascinating, as the gears appeared to be a different metal than the outside of the goblin's soul- what was up with that? The luster, too was different in places-

“-otter. Mr. Potter.” 

He jerked his face up and to attention. He was met with a very annoyed looking goblin. Sheepishly, he smiled and ignored the invisible heat flushing his brown cheeks. 

“Sorry. C-could you repeat that?”

The goblin didn’t look impressed. 

“We require a sample of blood to match with the warding locks on your vault. It was a precaution your parents set quite a long time ago.” 

That caught his attention. 

_ ‘My parents?’ _ was his first thought. _ ‘Wait, blood?!’ _ was his second. 

Hagrid had explained that his parents had been decently wealthy; his father with his inheritance and family status, and his mother with a high paying career. They’d left him behind a trust fund to start him through his Hogwarts years- but beyond that, Hagrid didn’t know anymore of his family’s finances. 

“...sure. But how- um. How would you get that sample?” Harry asked. He was no stranger to pain, but the idea of another magical being having his blood made his stomach churn. As well as his soul. He could feel that the ocean surrounding the little sunken treasure chest was slowly turning into a whirlpool. It wasn’t very reassuring. 

The goblin grinned. It wasn’t a nice grin. 

“Place your hand on the scale, Mr. Potter, and find out.” 

He grit his teeth and did as told. The teller flipped his hand so it was palm up, and then slashed a wicked sharp claw sideways across. Harry didn’t flinch. 

The goblin tilted his hand so his blood fell and pooled in the middle of the scales left golden basin. Once the creature was satisfied, Harry pulled his hand back and wrapped the deep cut in the extra folds of Dudley’s old shirt. He could already feel it healing. 

The teller, once he was satisfied with whatever magic he was doing, reached down to give Harry a plain white linen strip of cloth. 

“For your hand,” he said. 

“Thank you,” Harry responded; and he was grateful, because the goblin surely could have just let him bleed. 

The creature nodded. 

“An adviser will take you down to your vaults, and then to your representatives office to explain any discrepancies the past eleven years have held, as well as to go over statements.” 

Hagrid’s eyebrows shot up. 

_ Goblins, _ Harry decided, were _ incredibly aggravating. _

* * *

Sitting at the leaky cauldron for the second time that day, Harry fumed. 

Hagrid had gotten ill from the mine cart ride, and still sick almost an hour later, they’d decided to stick it out in the pub until the giant felt better once they’d left Gringotts.

While Hagrid sat bone weary next to him, Harry let his anger bubble. The ocean of his soul had turned a deep navy blue and maroon mix, churning and crashing with rough waves. 

Taking a sip of the butterbeer Hagrid had gotten him, Harry leaned against the giant’s side. 

They’d been getting money. Every month. For almost_ ten years. _

It made him want to break something. 

Griphook, after he’d taken them down to Harry’s trust vault had taken them right back up and to a calm but cozy office he said had belonged to the Potter family teller. Then, he’d left them waiting for another goblin- Furlor. Furlor had shown up rapidly. 

_ “I was the representative to the Potter family finances and estates. It has certainly been a long while, Heir Potter.” _

_ “H-heir? _

Furlor had explained that no, the trust vault was not the entire expanse of the Potter vaults, but instead a small vault set aside for him for school. 

It had been a heavy realization. 

Furlor had also made very clear that while not a part of the sacred twenty eight or terribly old in terms of British history, the Potter family still had been old nobility. 

_ “Wait, but, if the Potter house is supposedly so ancient, then how come it doesn’t count that way when compared to other houses?” _

_ Furlor had grinned. _

_ “Why, that would be because the Potter line didn’t originate from the United Kingdom, young heir.” _

_ “Wai,’ really?” Hagrid had intoned as well, half way incredulously. _

_ Furlor had frowned then, seemingly irritated. _

_ “Mr. Rubeous, I would think _ you _ of all wixen would be able to tell that much. Mr. Potter can be forgiven for his ignorance. He’s an orphan. You are a full fledged member of society,” the goblin had chastised, reading glasses perched on the end of his pointy nose judgmentally. _

_ “If they aren’t from here, then where are they from?” Harry had asked, timidly breaking the tension and ignoring Furlor's words. _

_ “ _ Your _ family, child,” Furlor lightly corrected, “immigrated to the United Kingdom almost two centuries ago, all the way from India.” _

Wiping the lasting foam of butterbeer from his lips, Harry glared down at the table. He was just as happy as he was angry, but mostly he was angry. Very angry. 

The Dursleys had been receiving a pension from keeping him. Suddenly, all of Petunia’s empty threats about an orphanage made sense- but most of all, why exactly they’d been empty. 

_ “Wait so if I’m the last Potter,” and hadn’t that been a hard thing to say, “then who’s in control of my accounts?” _

_ Furlor had let a toothy grin over take his face, and while admittedly Harry had shrunk back, he hadn’t been afraid. _

_ “That, child, would be you. It has been a long, stagnant ten years for this family. I am quite excited to reopen your files.” _

Those words had started a tumble, a churning complicated mess of politics he surely was supposed to learn; wixen finances and all their rules; his parent’s precautions and intentions they’d left behind. His family vault. 

_ “As of now, the only item you can retrieve from your family vault is the heir ring, which I should say you ought to leave to a later date. You still need your wand, Mr. Potter. _Rubeous.” 

_“We was gettin’ ter tha’! I wan’ed ter leave it for last, make it special.”_ _Hagrid had defended in the face of the goblins steady judgement. _

Furlor had let Harry leave with the new knowledge of his family, his vaults, and his place in the world. It was shocking, jarring, and terrifying. He took another sip of his butterbeer, and beside him, Hagrid let out a gusty sigh. 

“You think yer ‘bout ready ter go, ‘Arry?”

Harry nodded. 

* * *

“Wait Hagrid, why are we going back to the gate?” 

The giant turned to him with an odd look on his face. 

“Why, to return ya to yer family, ‘Arry.” 

Waves and waves of panic overtook him. No. No no no, he couldn’t go back. Not now, and not like this! Gripping his brand new trunk tightly, Harry realized that if he set foot back into the Dursley home with all his new, _ not normal things, _ they’d be destroyed. 

From her place on his shoulder, Hedwig hooted agitatedly, likely picking up on Harry’s panic through their newly found familiar bond. Hagrid had had Harry call her back from hunting before he’d begun directing them back to the leaky cauldron after going to Olivander’s. Harry had done so, before realizing the giant’s intent. 

Squeezing the panic tight between mental hands, Harry took a breath in. 

There was no way Hagrid would just let him remain in the alley. The giant had said once before that Dumbledore had ordered him to get Harry his things, and then send him back. Raising his eyes to meet the man’s own, Harry slid on the best face of confusion as he could. 

“Why would I go back? There’s plenty of open rooms at the leaky cauldron,” he said, moving his trunk behind his back so Hagrid couldn’t see his white knuckled grip on the leather strap. Hedwig followed the movement his shoulders made, bobbing as he shifted. 

“Wh- ‘Arry, ye can’t jus’ stay in Diagon Alley ‘til school starts!” Hagrid exclaimed, moving his hands to his hips, and pushing back his enormous fur coat as he did. 

Harry tilted his head in a practiced motion, his hands behind him trembling. 

“I fail to see why not. I mean, as long as I have a simple disguise, no one will recognize me. And besides,” he lowered his voice, leaning in closer to the giant so Hagrid had to stoop down to hear him. 

Harry widened his eyes, and put everything he had into fooling the giant.

“It’s far safer here for me than back with _ them _.” 

He watched the color visibly drain from Hagrid’s face. 

“You remember how my uncle reacted in the shack? When you first came to get me?” He whispered, one hand up to hide his mouth while he spoke, as if guarding a secret. 

“Oh dear- yes o’ course I do ‘Arry.” 

Shiftily, Harry swept his gaze twice over the alley before stilling his eyes on Hagrid again. 

Feeling horrible, but a step away from victorious, Harry took a breath before pulling what he knew from a constant stream of chatter all day to be the giant’s greatest weakness. Animals. 

“I think, I think they’d hurt Hedwig, Hagrid.” 

Harry watched the giant’s wavering decision utterly crumble. 

“Y’kno,’ ‘Arry, I think you’d be righ.’” 

Harry stood up straight, following the movement of Hagrid’s big hand as the man gently patted Hedwig. 

“If I stayed here, I could learn, too. I’ve never seen the magical world, Hagrid. If you’d let me stay, I could catch up,” he pleaded, placing the final decision in Hagrid’s hands. 

_ ‘If you,’ _was a powerful statement, he’d learned. 

Hagrid looked up and around swiftly, before bending back down to usher Harry in the direction of the leaky cauldron. His large hands kindly but firmly pushed Harry along quickly, and Hedwig fluttered along occasionally to keep up. All the while, the man rambled. 

“Oh, Dumbl’dore won’t like this a bit he won’. Bu I suppose wha’ the man doesn’ kno’ can’t hurt ‘im too much...Grea’ man, Dumbl’dore is. Hafta use yer trust fund money, ‘Arry, for the Leaky- school money goes on record, ya kno’. I’ll pu’ a room under my name, an’ we’ll find ya a hat, ‘Arry. A big hat.” 

Slowly, Harry grinned. 

In his ear, Hedwig hooted, and he felt her faint amusement through the bond. 

It would be alright. 

* * *

Harry woke up slowly. 

It was still dark, in the first year boys dorm of Slytherin. 

He sat up, and satin sheets of jade green fell off of him in a river. The curved wall of glass holding a deep lake at bay betrayed the early morning. The water, as opposed to bright like the upper years had described it in the sun, was still gloomy and dusky. The sun had not yet risen. 

Rubbing the soft material of his shirt between his fingers, Harry used his other hand to slightly pull aside his bed curtains, and looked around the room. 

The dorm was large, yet curved; it was a hollow tower, the inside made of glass to keep the black lake at bay. Deep sea green curtains were strung up between each canopy bed to give the sense of privacy. The curtains only stretched so far, so as to leave the space by back stone wall free to walk. 

His section had a small wardrobe to the side of his bed, and desk on the other. 

With a sigh he flopped back onto his bed and looked to his left. Malfoy had the bed next to his own. The other boy had let Harry stick close, last night; through the feast, the introduction the prefects gave, and through the piercing speech professor Snape had spun; the man with the soul of secrets. 

Before they’d all been dismissed for the night to their dorms, Snape had pulled him aside with a harsh word and a restless soul. 

_ “Potter, a word.” He’d hissed.  _

_ “What was it you wanted? Sir.” _

_ “I will have no whining- there will be no replacement, nor complaining. Am I clear?” _

_ He remembered being confused.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” he’d stated, and something about the man’s black robes and ravens eye stare had him struggling to be as polite as possible.  _

_ “I’m afraid I don’t understand, p-professor.” He had stumbled over the title, unused to the large word. Snape had twitched.  _

_ “Your sorting, Mr. Potter. Surely you must have a complaint with being a  _ Slytherin _ .” As his words dripped like tar, hissing onto hot pavement, Snape’s soul had fluctuated. The blue flames inside the triangle of stones had roared to life, and the misty sky illuminated with old spell light. A little burst of magic escaped before the man could reign it in, and Harry felt a turmoil of emotions within it.  _

_ He was angry. Angry, and confused, and lost.  _

_ The realization had helped Harry to understand the man a little more.  _

_ “No, sir. I’m where I’m supposed to be.”  _

_ Snape had looked drained; drained, and wilted, and perplexed.  _

_ Eventually, the professor had moved his tired stare from Harry to the window of the black lake beyond. Harry had stood silent and still, unsure as to what he had to do. Snape had dismissed him to bed after an incredulously murmured ‘ _ a six minute hat stall for a slytherin, _ ’ and Harry had went his way.  _

The wall of deep green curtain didn’t move, and Harry blew a stray curl out of his face. Rolling off his bed to crouch in front of his trunk, he settled in to read until it was the proper time to get up. 

Around him, his peers slept on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeet. I guess you can take that any scene not written either happened as cannon or is implied to be something else. idk. this is a very loose story.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone, if you wanna use this idea, go a McFreaking head bc I'd love to see it in depth but I don't want to write it bc my shit always gets too long bruh


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